“Adam Kempe,” said Will; and, when Adam had folded his papers very small in the point of his hood, “Give thee God-speed o' thy homeward way, brother.”
“Nay, not yet!” quoth the rustic. “All 's not ended. I bide the bidding o' Wat Tyler and Jack Straw. Is more work to do.”
“What more?” asked Will, drawing forth a fresh pardon.
The man chuckled.
Presently came Kitte with black bread and beans and a mug of ale, which she set down in the window beside her husband.
“Eat,” she said. “These have waited a lifetime to be free; let them wait now three minutes. Thou 'rt famished.”
He smiled sadly. “Were they in vérité free, I 'd gladly starve,” he said; and Calote heard this, who ever stood near her father.
“The King's seal is affixed to every of these papers,” said she. “What more?”
But Will had filled his mouth with beans, and chewed, the while he wrote.
“Ah,” sighed Calote; “wherefore may I not rejoice?” And on a sudden she had caught her mother by the two hands and danced with her down the long room and into the lane. But there she paused twixt laughter and tears, and:—